Your body ached.

Every limb screamed, your hands were raw from the hours of weapons drills, and your legs trembled from the relentless physical tests. The government wasn’t training soldiers—they were breaking them down and rebuilding them into something else. Something colder. Sharper. Unshakeable.

But you weren’t unshakeable. Not yet.

You’d nearly quit three times this week alone. The memory of Raccoon City—the screams, the smoke, the smell of burning flesh—still clawed its way into your nightmares. They wanted you to bury it. Power through. Be better.

And honestly? You didn’t know if you could.

Until he walked onto the mat again.

Leon S. Kennedy.

Quiet. Composed. Lethal.

He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t bark orders or boast about kills like some of the others. But there was something in his movements—tight, practiced precision. He carried the weight of something deep and heavy in his chest, and yet… he moved like he didn’t want anyone to know he was drowning.

You understood that.

And maybe… that’s why you couldn’t look away.

You watched him between sparring rounds. His focused frown. The way his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. The slight clench of his jaw when someone got too close. You weren’t sure if it was admiration or something else, but whatever it was—it kept you coming back.

Even when your knees buckled. Even when your knuckles bled.

Today, after a brutal round of hand-to-hand, you were hunched over a bench in the corner of the training facility, trying to breathe without tasting blood.

Then—boots stopped beside you.

You looked up.

Leon.

Expression unreadable, except for the faintest twitch of concern in his brow.

“…You alright?” His voice was low. Rough. Almost reluctant.

You blinked, stunned he’d even noticed.

What do you say?